


Martin Septim and the Knights of the Nine

by lesbianauriel



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Drabble Collection, Found Family, Gen, Knights of the Nine DLC, Martin Septim Lives, Profanity, martin septim adopts the hok, non-binary original character - Freeform, some suggestive bits in true bardic fashion, the hok is far too young to be saving the empire, this absolutely will Not be updated regularly but i'll do my best, this is a very self indulgent knights of the round table au basically., vaguely au but not really?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianauriel/pseuds/lesbianauriel
Summary: A series of short stories revolving around a bastard heir named Martin, a young knight named Galla, and the warriors they led, as told by the Bard of Skingrad.Or, a bard named Alan tries desperately to document the life of the Emperor and His knight, to varying degrees of success.
Relationships: Divine Crusader & Martin Septim
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Martin Septim and the Knights of the Nine

he Star-Made Knight had no parents, for they were born of the Eight And One themselves.

Each of the Divines poured part of their soul into a Mortal Vessel, crafted lovingly by the hands of Talos Himself. Akatosh gave them a fiery spirit; Mara gave them compassion; Stendarr gave them pity; Kynareth gave them the temper of a storm; Zenithar gave them the will to work hard; Dibella gave them beauty; Julianos gave them wisdom beyond that of ordinary mortals; Arkay gave the gift of escaping the cycle of life and death --

* * *

"This is by far the stupidest origin I have _ever_ heard," Galla said, crossing their arms. A heavy, white brow arched as they glanced from the page to the Bard. "Alan, please tell me you're not planning on making people believe I was literally _crafted by the gods._ "

The bard huffed, setting down his quill next to the parchment and pushing stray strands hair behind his ear. "Well, perhaps I needn't come up with a story, if you would simply tell it yourself," he replied, leaning back into the cushioned chair. The Imperial Library was as quiet as always, the warm glow of lantern light casting odd shadows on Galla's face and sending their shadow flickering against the book shelves. 

"I _did_ tell you my story. There was no great tragedy, or no great signs of my coming, or whatever else melodramatic nonsense you wish to hear." They sighed, exasperated, but Alan could see the hint of a smile on their features. "My birth was not marked by an earthquake or a thunderstorm or a vision from the gods. My mother is a mage. My father was a farmer. I suffered no great loss or tragedy. There was nothing exceedingly unusual about my childhood, save for my grandfather's curse, which never really did much _._ "

"A curse! You never said _anything_ about a curse!"

"I just told you," they pinched the bridge of their nose, their smile growing wider nonetheless, "It didn't exactly do anything."

Alan leaned forward, grabbing the quill and dipping it into the inkpot precariously placed by the very edge of the table the pair occupied. "Tell me everything about this ... this curse."

"My grandfather was a priest of Arkay, decided it would be much more fun to attempt to woo a godlike necromancer, and was cursed to never create his own magicka. As a signal of his lust, his and all his descendants' hair would be the color of the necromancer's. That's also why I can't generate _my_ own magicka."

"Wait - your grandfather was a necromancer?"

"One of Mannimarco's disciples, yes."

Alan scribbled something down. Galla glanced at the barely-legible writing, reading aloud as he wrote.

" _T_ _he necromancer longed to caress his god's Elven features, to tangle his hair in his fingers, as th --_ Are you writing erotica about my _grandfather_ and fucking _Mannimarco?!_ "

"To be exact, I'm writing about your grandfather wanting to fuck Mannimarco."

Galla shook their head, face scrunching up into one of disgust. " _From this longing burst a wh..._ Oh, by the Nine! Have you no shame?!"

" _... burst a white seed,_ " Alan continued, waggling his eyebrows, not taking his eyes off the page. " _Just as his seed faded, Arkay frowned upon him and turned his hair as white as snow ..._ "

"That's not - oh, Gods, I think I'm going to retch."

"I simply cannot believe that the greatest hero... Wait, no, second ... No, the Nerevarine would be the second, I think, so..." Alan cleared his throat, "I can't believe that the third greatest hero of our time is the product of one man's crush on Mannimarco."

"Let me see that gods damned -" Galla cut themselves off, grabbing the quill and tearing out the parchment in one swift move, crumpling the latter into a ball. Alan gasped, and tried to catch it as Galla tossed it over their shoulder.

"I'll write what _really_ happened," they mumbled, shooting a half-hearted glare at the distraught bard.

* * *

The child who would grow into Pelinal's Mantle was born on a cold day in a sleepy town, in the month of Sun's Dusk. Their mother, like her father before her and his father before him, was a mage; their father was a simple farmer, though he ran away with a nobleman's daughter before their birth.

Galla was a scholar, though not much of a mage; they learned the art of destruction easily, and retained knowledge well, but the other schools of magic slipped from their grasp. As they grew older, they learned more of swordplay and the art of war, and spent many long hours training among the soldiers. Eventually, the thought entered their head to leave their sleepy hometown in search for the Armor of Pelinal Whitestrake.

* * *

"That is unspeakably boring," Alan said, leaning over to peer at the new paper over Galla's shoulder.

"It's the truth."

"So, what, you just - decided you wanted the armor, that's all?"

Galla nodded. "My childhood was uneventful. It's when I began the search for Pelinal's armor that the workings of fate tugged me towards Martin."

"Wow. Poetic. You sure you're not in the wrong career?"

Galla sighed, glancing down at the quill and back over to Alan. They hummed for a moment, before striking quickly, leaving a smear of ink across Alan's face. They jumped up from the table as Alan realized what they had done, bringing a hand to his face.

"You _wench_ , you marred my beauty -!" He was on his feet, chasing them through the library. "Get back here, you accursed fiend, you damned spawn of Daedra, you fucking pinecone--!"

\--

The next day, they were informed that Alan of Skingrad was no longer permitted in the Imperial Library, and they would have to begin the search for someplace else to continue his novel.


End file.
